Our Tortallans
by Galia
Summary: Men and women exactly like your favorite Tortallans, except born in modern times--President Conté, Numair wrongfully expelled from Princeton, Daine a future vet, Gary the President's Cheif of Staff and Press Secretary Alanna...RR!
1. Introduction

**Our Tortallans**

The cast you have grown to know and love is exactly the same, except they were all born and raised in our modern world. Jonathan W. Conté has just been elected President of the United States, thanks to his campaign manager Alanna Trebond. Soon they, secret service leader (guess who?), and chief of staff (guess who?) will have to fight the takeover of the Speaker of the House (guess who?).

Disclaimer: All these characters are Tamora Pierce's, and everything I know about political campaigns I learned from The People's Choice by Jeff Greenfield. I have no connection to the _National Enquirer_.

**Rating:** **R for** **language and some sexual references.**

            "People are jealous of a woman with power," Alanna Trebond said before taking another gulp of beer. Jonathan W. Conté, the man to whose career as a politician she had devoted a significant portion of the last decade, patted her on the back in a very friendly, compassionate, and platonic way.

            "Alanna, calm down," he said. "It was the fucking _National Enquirer_, for God's sake. If anyone believes it, they aren't worth talking to."

            "But an affair with you," Trebond protested. "Aborting _your baby!_ Where did that reporter come _up_ with this kind of bullshit! As soon as you're inaugurated, I'm going to track that whore down and—"

            "_Alanna_," Conté said, looking around nervously. Other people in the hotel bar were staring at them, and the omnipresent secret service agents, men that Conté had begun to regard as normal just days after the election, were looking at people suspiciously. 

            "Why don't I just lead you up to your room," Conté suggested, placing a gentle arm under Trebond's and lifting her almost forcibly from the bar stool. "And then you can go to sleep and I'll go to my room and go to sleep and in the morning, no one will even remember that article."

            "Right," Trebond said, yanking her arm from Conté's grasp. "And flying monkeys will come out of my _mgphmph!_"

            At a nod from Conté, the head of the secret service (a man named Raoul Goldenlake) had placed a hand over Trebond's mouth and lifted her off her feet and was now holding her easily in his strong arms. Goldenlake was the kind of leader who loved fieldwork and, far from sitting in a remote office watching by means of video surveillance, personally protected the President-elect at every possible opportunity.

            "If you could take her up to her room," Conté said casually. "I'll be up shortly." Goldenlake nodded and took the protesting woman up to her hotel suite.

            "Numair, I just heard." Numair Salmalín, former physics major at Princeton University, looked up from his packing and saw his best friend Ozzie Tasikhe standing in the doorway of his dorm room. "I'm sorry."

            "Like hell you do," Numair said angrily at his friend, who smiled infuriatingly.

            "Now, now," Ozzie said condescendingly. "You clearly broke honor code; that paper was almost exactly taken from the book in the library. It won't do you any good to get mad at me."

            Numair glared. "You watched me write that paper. I _know_ that you planted that book in the library—you with all your goddamn _influence_, and your dad's the fucking dean—"

            "You watch it." Ozzie had abandoned all pretenses of innocence. "The board already voted you out. It won't do you a scrap of good to accuse me. Besides, who do you think they're going to believe?"

            Numair zipped up his duffel bag so violently that the tab broke off. "Are you happy now?" he shouted, standing up and facing down Ozzie. "You're going to get your fucking award and your fucking research grant, now that I'm gone. Are you fucking happy?"

            The other student stood calmly before him. "If you take one more fucking step toward me, I'll call campus security." His eyes held a gleam that told Numair how quickly he would follow up on his threat.

            "Get the fuck out of here!" Numair shouted. Ozzie smiled mockingly and made an unhasty retreat.

A/N: So, what do you think? I'd DEFINITELY like some reviews, please, and if you have any ideas for characters equivalents, I'd like to hear them. Thanks!


	2. A corner of the plot-covering sheet is r...

A/N: THANK YOU for your reviews! (I was feeling rather bitter because I put up a story that got no reviews in a week—I took it down because it was an embarrassment). I corrected the first chapter—Numair's at Princeton, not Harvard. That was just a taste, to see how everyone would respond. Here's a more substantial chapter.

**Rated: R for language and sexual references.**

            "Mr. Speaker! Mr. Speaker!" A crowd of reporters had followed Roger Conté from place to place ever since he had been voted Speaker of the House. Ignoring the bloodthirsty pack, he walked with dignity into his large Washington apartment.

            "The Speaker will not be taking questions," his secretary, Alexander Tirragen, told the press before ducking less imperiously into the apartment and shutting the door. Roger Conté was already reclining in a maroon velvet chair, sipping a drink.

            "I think you should hold a press conference, to let them get it all out of their system," Tirragen said, pouring himself a drink and taking the seat across from the Speaker.

            "Let them wonder," Roger Conté said, picking up a stack of papers that had been left on his coffee table by one of his minions earlier that day. "It's better that they don't get used to knowing too much about me. It might hamper my plans later on."

            Looking at the papers held by the Speaker, Tirragen raised his eyebrow. Conté gave him a condescending smile. "You ought to watch _The West Wing_, if you plan on working there someday," he said "I got this particular idea from the season finale."

            Tirragen shrugged, picked up _The Washington Post_ and scanned the articles. Stem cell research, a fire in Georgetown that demolished three blocks, a toxic by-product of chocolate, a disputed vote count, and more. He highlighted several articles of importance and placed the paper back on the coffee table, for his employer to read—all but the business section, which he took into his bedroom with him to call his broker.

            _This might be the last time we're together like this_, Numair realized as he stroked the blonde head resting on his chest. He and his fiancé, Varice Kingsford, had agreed to break up so that she could remain at Princeton without a scandal, but there were no hard feelings on either side. Quite the opposite, in fact.

            "Numair, honey?" Varice's voice had that sleepy quality that it always did after she made love. 

            "Mmm?"

            "What are you going to do now? Are you going to go home, or try and transfer, or what?"

            He had been thinking about this for days. "I thought maybe I'd give up on school and try my luck as a political reporter. That's where I'm going, anyway, down to Washington."

            Varice nodded; it was a logical choice on Numair's part. He had been the editor of the school paper since his sophomore year and ghostwrote for his teachers' submissions to physics journals. "I know you'll be successful. I know you."

            Numair smiled wryly. "I know you do. I just hope you're right."

            "What do you mean, it's _gone!?_" Goldenlake shouted at an unfortunate member of the Secret Service administration. "Did it just…walk away?!"

            The young man cringed at his voice. "N-no sir," he stuttered.

            "Then I suppose it got on its bicycle and went for some exercise?!"

            "N-no, sir."

            "_Then what the fuck happened?!?!"_

            The man gulped. "I—I lost it, sir."

            Goldenlake was famous for not losing his temper, no matter how dire the situation. The unfortunate young man, a recent college graduate and new to the government, thought to himself that whatever he had heard about his commander, bulging veins and a mottled purple complexion were not included.

            "_You did NOT…LOSE…the PRESIDENT'S…MEDICAL history!!!!!!!!!"_ Goldenlake exploded. The man whimpered and scurried several steps back, only to press up against the wall. The commander turned around, pressed his hands to his desk, and got himself under control. When he faced his subordinate again, he was much calmer. The man relaxed visibly.

            "Please find that document," he said in a reasonable tone. "It's got to be around here somewhere. And it is vital that you find it—if that got into the wrong hands…"

            "Yes sir," the underling said, his poise recovered. "I'll search the office again, and then see if anyone has taken it."

            _Shit,_ Goldenlake thought, sinking into his chair once the young man was gone. _This is not good._

            The interviewer raised an eyebrow. "Physics major?" he said condescendingly. Numair nodded. "But you were the editor of the paper for a year and a half…I've read a few issues during recruitment, and I like what you've done with it."

            "Thank you, sir," Numair said. This was his first job interview, and he had no idea how it was going. The interviewer looked at his transcript, and nodded.

            "Well, Mr. Salmalín," he said, "this is very impressive. I only have one issue to discuss with you—your expulsion. What do you have to say about that?"

            "There's not much I can say, really," Numair said. "I was wrongfully accused by an extremely determined party, but I don't expect you to believe that anymore than the Board did."

            The interviewer nodded. "I see…Mr. Salmalín, if you will, I'd like you to give me an interesting headline for a three-inch snowfall."

            Numair didn't pause. "Storm Buries Northeast, Thousands Affected. Or, if you'd prefer, Harmful Effects of Global Warming Locally Evident. Depending on your point of view." 

            "Three thousand a month. You start tomorrow."

            "Dinner on me."

            "No way."

            "Dinner on me _and_ I let you be Press Secretary and make Gary be Chief of Staff."

            "Done."

            "Well, who is it?"

            Trebond looked surreptitiously over her shoulder, but the metal partition between the driver and the back seat of the limo was closed firmly. Still, she leaned over close to Conté and whispered, "George Cooper."

            "George!" the newly inaugurated President shouted gleefully, slapping his thigh with laughter. "You're joking!"

            "Shh!" she protested. "Yes, I'm moving in, and we're going to be monogamous. It's nothing else official yet, but…"

            "'Nothing official' my ass, Alanna. You'll be married before the next congressional election." The limo pulled to a stop, and a secret service agent opened President Conté's door for him. 

            "Grizzly and Fox are confirmed on the ground," the agent muttered into his communication device. Had Conté not flashed her a warning look, Trebond surely would have attacked the man upon hearing her code name for the first time (she did not enjoy being known to everyone as a firey-tempered little redhead).

            "Jo-on," she whined instead. The President, who had suggested the name in the first place, gave her a grin, then stepped out of the limo and waved presidentially. Trebond was left to scramble out on her own, and followed Conté up the stairs and into the White House. It was time to move in.

A/N: Well? I was so happy with the reviews that I got this up super-fast! What do you think? Any ideas? Reviews! I'd rather have flames than nothing! *throws tantrum* Review me!!!!


	3. The plot thickens

A/N: Nice to see everyone again! I continued this story at the request of Flaming Knight, and it might be better now that I've learned to use profanity sparingly (and I've actually taken a government class and begun to pay attention to politics).   
  
Unfortunately, we'll have to do without the accent over the in because I lost the sheet my Spanish teacher gave me on how to create accents on a mac.  
  
==================   
  
Tirragen's boss was always the first to wake up. When Alex stumbled into the kitchen after a five-hour rest that seemed more like a power nap, Conte was already fully dressed, drinking strong coffee and flipping through a stack of papers. His secretary, clad only in blue-and-green striped boxers and a t-shirt, yawned and dropped himself onto a chair.  
  
he mumbled incoherently. Conte sighed and shoved a mug of coffee across the table, careful not to spill a drop on the President's medical records.  
  
Tirragen paused, coffee halfway to his lips. _The President's medical records?!?_  
  
Conte laughed. I see you're not too foggy-brained to grasp the importance of my acquisition.  
  
You...what...how did you...? Tirragen jabbered. This was beyond belief, absolutely -   
  
Conte said casually, though his flushed cheeks and elevated heart rate spoke of great excitement. Our contact in the Secret Service was able to steal them right off an agent's desk. Wish I could've seen the look on the kid's face when he had to face Goldenlake...  
  
Tirragen laughed. I know I've known you for years, and yet you never fail to surprise me. Well done, Roger.  
  
Conte smiled. Thank you, Alex. I'm glad I brought you along for the ride.  
  
===================  
  
Lines like three thousand a month, you start tomorrow sound so sincere, Numair thought as he balanced five cups of coffee on a breakneck journey through the crowded newsroom floor up to the executive conference room. The pay was about half what he'd been promised, the employment paperwork had taken a week to go through, and so far he had not been called upon to write a single story. The value of a college degree had never been so evident.  
  
a reporter called, waving at him frantically from a cluster of computers. Numair sighed and thrust his tray of coffee into the arms of an intern. It had taken the news staff two days to discover that he had been studying physics. The liberal arts types, he knew, didn't see any remarkable difference between physics, engineering, computer science, and mathematics. Still, Numair was a naturally helpful person and was perfectly willing to do whatever needed to be done.  
  
Are you certain you've turned it on? he called to the reporter, shoving his way through the crowd.  
  
===================  
  
Watching the press conference on closed-circuit TV, Jonathan Conte was once again glad he had not given Gary the post of press secretary. The post may have been created for Herbert Hoover, he thought, but it might as well have been custom-made for Alanna Trebond.  
  
I already answered that, Alanna said impatiently in response to a reporter's question. Were you fantasizing about your camerawoman? Let's hear a less stupid question.  
  
Doing an excellent job simply doesn't begin to cover it, Jonathan thought.  
  
===================  
  
Alanna sighed and adjusted her dress. She hated dresses. She also hated stupid honorary dinners. Thayet had specifically asked her to come to this one - as vice president _and_ First Lady, she attended these events several times each week - and Alanna was beginning to wish she hadn't agreed.  
  
Welcome, Vice President Conte! proclaimed a banner. Underneath was another banner proudly announcing the annual gathering of the American Veterinary Association. Currently a man who, Alanna couldn't help noting, looked like a cat was rambling on about the rookie of the year, a seventeen-year-old prodigy who had discovered a talent for veterinary medicine while working on her mother's farm and had been awarded a full scholarship to veterinary school. Blah, blah, blah.  
  
The award was presented by Thayet, the pretty young woman thanked her mother and grandfather, and lukewarm chicken was served. Alanna began counting down the minutes until she could leave.  
  
===================  
  
Numair soon realized that he had been assigned a job, presumably with the title Head Coffee-Deliverer to the Vice Presidential Press Corps. He hadn't even known that there _was_ a Vice Presidential press corps.   
  
When the most junior reporter of that group had suddenly come down with food poisoning, Numair had found himself with his first story assignment. He was to attend an event hosted by the American Veterinary association and write a story. Now acquainted with the news business, he knew that this story would never be used, and no one but the veterinarians and the Vice President would ever care about this event. He was wrong.  
  
===================  
  
Well, he was mostly right, except for one. Because as he was checking his coat at the Georgetown Holiday Inn, he noticed a young woman with curly brown hair and a beautiful older blonde enter the hotel.  
  
Love at first sight is complete bullshit, he said before he could stop himself. The coat check boy laughed at him, and Numair blushed.  
  
The remarks at the beginning of the dinner were long and boring, but Numair heard nothing. He gazed at Ms. Sarrasri, the mother of the guest of honor, and wondered if she were married. He admired her long, shining hair, elegantly coiled at the back of her head, and the graceful lines of her neck. Her green dress matched her eyes, and it took all Numair's self-restraint to stop him from wondering what the woman would look like without it.   
  
Then the meal came, and Numair was disappointed to notice that it was chicken. He was a vegetarian. Catching a glimpse of Daine, the beautiful woman's daughter, he hypothesized that she was, too. While the members of her table conversed brightly and enjoyed the cruelly murdered animal, Miss Sarrasri pushed her plate back several inches and rested the top of a textbook on the empty space.  
  
With the excuse of congratulating the guest of honor in mind, Numair pushed back his chair and made his way across the floor to the table. Very recently he had begun to adjust his perception of himself from awkward teenager to fairly good-looking, when it's not a bad hair day and the confidence had manifested itself in a great measure of success with women.   
  
However, the closer he got to Ms. Sarrasri, the more he felt that confidence draining out of him. She was a beautiful, mature woman, and he was a news network errand boy with no friends outside of the college that had expelled him and -   
  
Numair immediately covered his mouth, but the damage was done. Ms. Sarrasri glared at him for his foul language in front of her teenaged daughter, and turned her back to him to converse with the Vice President. Daine laughed and picked the textbook up off the ground.  
  
It's no big deal. The book'll live, she said good-naturedly.   
  
Numair couldn't help noticing the author's name on the spine. Annina Tashike! he said, surprised.   
  
Daine looked amused. You know the author of my physics textbook?  
  
I know her son, Numair said. Well, I used to... He had been all alone in Washington for too long, unable to tell anyone about his life at Princeton for fear that his unsavory reputation would follow him. Before he knew what he was doing, he had poured his heart out to Daine. She listened sympathetically, and seemed perfectly understanding and willing to trust him, even against the word of the son of the head of the University's physics department. After he had finished his story, he felt remarkably free and relaxed, although the danger of being discovered was still present.  
  
Would you tutor me in physics, then? was all Daine had to say. Numair smiled.  
  
===================  
  
You've checked with the administration of the rehab clinic? Roger Conte asked.  
  
replied his secretary.  
  
You've confirmed the witnesses?  
  
  
  
You have copies of the records?  
  
In triplicate.  
  
The Speaker smiled and patted the couch next to him. Tirragen sat down and handed Conte a glass of wine. The other man sipped it thoughtfully.  
  
You realize, obviously, that whichever reporter we have break the story must be..._convinced_...to keep his sources secret.  
  
Tirragen smiled. He realized. I found a kid working for CNN who's trying unsuccessfully to be a reporter. He was expelled from Princeton for plagiarism not too long ago.  
  
Conte raised his eyebrows. I didn't know the network was looking for cheating physics majors. Tirragen shook his head, awed as usual by the amount of information Roger seemed to have on every topic imaginable.  
  
So you've heard about him, then. Well, his bosses haven't.   
  
Roger smiled.  
  
===================  
  
A/N: I'm not sure if I've made this clear enough, and I know it's bad form to tell people these things outright, but I'd like everyone to notice something: in the books, the attack on Jon was likely to be an attempt on his life, but Alanna was there to defend him with superior swordsmanship skills. In my story the attack will be on his reputation, so it stands to reason that Alanna is well-known for her ability to give a story a positive spin.  
  
Thus, an end to the complaints that I gave her the press secretary job because she's the only woman, just like CJ on the West Wing. That's not why.  
  
Anyway, I'd like some reviews. I think I like this and might keep working on it.


	4. The plot pretty much ends

A/N: Before wrapping up this story in one marathon chapter, I'd like to say a little bit about my absence from ff.net.  
  
I began posting stories sometime during my freshman year in high school. Even taking five honors courses, freshman year was a joke. That didn't last very long. The stories trickled out and died. From time to time, I still visited the site, but it seemed that my favorite authors, like me, had outgrown or lost interest in the books.  
  
Now here I am, exactly halfway through my senior year. My midterm exams are over, the cheerleading season is nearly so, and if I pass senior year I will begin classes at the University of Pennsylvania next fall. All of this translates into one thing: Lots and lots of free time.  
  
So I came back to ff.net to see what I had missed over two years. And frankly, I was appalled. Bad grammar, poorly written fluff, and remarkably terrible characterization were rampant. I couldn't help myself: I posted The Decline and Fall, a parody highlighting the malady of terrible writing.  
  
The response was immediate and enthusiastic. The higher-minded writing community wasn't gone. It was just hiding. Infused with a fresh energy for fan fiction, I began to churn out all the stories that had been brewing in my imagination behind Peter the Great, _Death of a Salesman_, the Extreme Value Theorem, the Universal Gravitational Constant, Gilbert and Sullivan's and The Five Basic Ingredients of Great Harvest Bread. So here they are.  
  
It also occurred to me that posting many stories in quick succession is a good way to make sure that my name stays prominent on the page. I hope, however, that the relatively small mature TP fan community (there are quite a few, but Garnet-Scorpion and Alone in the Desert and Ironi Numair come immediately to mind) is on the lookout for me, as I am for them. With each other's support, we can hide behind the door and hit Mary Sue over the head with a frying pan.  
  
%%%%%%%%%%  
  
  
  
Numair scowled. The dark-haired man calling his name couldn't possibly be past his late twenties. He had been condescended enough lately - by his bosses, by his coworkers, and by Daine's beautiful mother (who didn't see what use her veterinary prodigy had for a physics tutor). Getting lip from strangers was just too much.  
  
You're Salmalin, right? the man said, finally catching up with Numair. The latter sighed and set the tray of late-night coffee down on the empty anchors' desk.   
  
What do you want? he asked, crossing his arms and leaning back to rest his behind on the desk.  
  
That's not the question, the man said, grabbing an anchor's chair and sitting in it backward, straddling the backrest. The question is, what do _you_ want? Numair was about to respond that his desires were his own business when the stranger cut him off. You want to be a reporter. You want to break into the business.  
  
Numair said, because it was true.  
  
That's going to be difficult with _plagiarism_ on your record, isn't it? Numair scowled, but the man continued. Your bosses don't know, and you'd like to keep it that way.  
  
So really, you wish for two things. One: you wish that the reason for your expulsion could be wiped from all records. Two: you want a story that will make your reputation. I work for the Speaker - perhaps you've heard of him. He has a great deal of influence in a variety of areas. With a little effort your indiscretion could be erased, as if it had never existed.  
  
Numair sighed. Tell me what to write.  
  
%%%%%%%%%%  
  
The story of President Conte's brief stay in alcohol rehabilitation was certainly an interesting one, thought Numair as he made his way through the last station on the metro line to the Maryland suburbs. But he could think about that later. Daine had a big test this week.  
  
Numair explained for the thousandth time, you have two objects. Then have different masses, and you have to label them as such. Gravity acts more forcefully on the object with greater mass.  
  
What about friction? asked Daine. Wait - there's no friction if you're accelerating, right?  
  
Numair sighed. he said. Why don't we finish this in a little while? I have a very important favor to ask of you.  
  
What kind of favor? asked Daine.  
  
Do you remember the Veterinary Association banquet?  
  
%%%%%%%%%%  
  
The name on Alanna's Caller ID looked vaguely familiar. After the second ring, she realized that it was the _girl_...the girl from the _thing_...  
  
Miss Sarrasri? What can I do for you? Alanna asked. She vaguely remembered giving the girl her card, mostly out of politeness.   
  
said a male voice, this is Numair Salmalin. I was covering the Veterinary Association thing for CNN. I came over to your table and knocked over Daine's book...  
  
Mr. Salmalin, Alanna growled, I am _extremely_ busy, so if you wouldn't mind confining your reminiscences to your diary -   
  
No! Wait! the young man said frantically. There's something I very much need to tell you. Can I meet with you tomorrow?  
  
Alanna did not want to meet with this Numair Salmalin. Eight-thirty sharp. You have ten minutes. Goodbye.  
  
%%%%%%%%%%  
  
Whose camera is that? Numair asked Daine, hanging up the phone. He eyed the object in question, which was resting on top of a pile of mail on the dining room table.  
  
My mother's, responded Daine. She takes pictures for magazines when she's not working on the farm. Daine lived in Maryland with her grandfather while her mother spent most days looking after the Virginia farm.  
  
Since she's away right now, do you think she'd mind if we borrowed it? Numair asked. And, while I'm imposing on you, would you like to come along?  
  
Daine smiled. I'd love to.  
  
Quite a few hours later, Daine and Numair stood in Ms. Sarrasri's darkroom, developing their film. How did you know about...all this? Daine asked, waving her hand in the direction of the pictures hanging on a line to dry.  
  
Call it a hunch, said Numair, aided by an instinct I developed in college from hanging around only the absolute most stylish bars.  
  
%%%%%%%%%%  
  
Alanna stared at the photographs, and made a noise that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh. She repeated the reaction several times before the reality of the pictures sunk in.  
  
The Speaker and his secretary? she said, still partially in shock. Who would have guessed? Then, mostly to herself, Jon is a strong supporter of gay rights. But Roger prefers to stand for family values.' I can use this under the headline, Conte Agrees That Equality _is_ a Family Value'...  
  
You won't want to do that, said Numair. Alanna snorted.  
  
Why not? You've given me this wonderful weapon, and you expect me not to use it?  
  
It's not a weapon, said Numair, as much as it is a defense. He briefly explained the story that Alexander Tirragen had asked - ordered - him to write. The blood drained from Alanna's face.  
  
How he found out... she whispered. That little bastard! I'll kill him!  
  
You don't need to kill him, Numair said. You just need to show him the pictures I gave you. Evidence of _most_ - kinky, really - conduct with his special friend would surely ruin the political career of Mr. Family Values.'  
  
Alanna shook her head. You belong in the Washington press, all right, she said. You're a natural.  
  
Numair shook his head. I'm finished here. I'll leave the wheeling and dealing to the politicians, if that's all right.  
  
If that's how you feel... said Alanna regretfully. She would have loved to have Mr. Salmalin working for her. What are you going to do now, then?  
  
Numair checked his watch. I'm going to catch a train to Maryland, he said. I have a lunch date with a young lady who's currently taking a physics test; she's sure to ace it, thanks to yours truly.  
  
That's right, said Alanna, I've read about you in the paper, haven't I? When Numair blushed, she hastily added, You claim to have been falsely accused, though, is that right? When Numair nodded, she looked thoughtful. You know, I knew Annina Tashike at Berkeley, and I believe she owes me a favor...  
  
Numair's eyes widened. You'd do that for me?  
  
Alanna nodded. You saved my skin, and Jon's, and Thayet's. If you had broken that story, you would have your name made in the news, _and_ you'd be cleared of all charges. You don't seem to want the first, but I can provide the second.  
  
Numair was at a loss for words. That...that would be..._incredible_... I could go back to Princeton, he thought, and see Varice again...  
  
But Daine, he remembered, would be attending veterinary school in Philadelphia. Numair wondered when U. Penn's application deadline was...  
  
%%%%%%%%%%  
  
A/N: I think that's the end, though if it doesn't feel to you guys let me know. Please review! I need lots and lots of encouragement and criticism and even flames, just so I know that ff.net is still worth the effort!  
  
Love y'all!


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